Enticement
by Alara
Summary: Rogue's a lonely girl. Remy's the new guy in town, and he seems to like her. Logan fumes.ROMY vampire story, with a twist. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Hey, all… here's just something that's been kicking around in my head for a while… I'll try to keep it short(ish), as I want to have it done by Halloween time. Yeah, I know, me finish something in two months? Wish me luck.

So we have Rogue, our resident antisocial Goth girl, who, while antisocial, doesn't want to be left out of things. Leaving oneself out is one thing, _being_ left out is quite another. Especially when you're sixteen and full of all the insecurities that _that_ brings.

Enter into the picture one gorgeous Remy LeBeau, who seems to have a pull on Rogue like no one else; moreover, it seems to be mutual, and very, very strong. But Remy has a side darker than Rogue could ever imagine, and a watchful Logan seems to sense this immediately, and reacts accordingly.

Will Rogue learn about Remy's secret? Will it chase her away? Will Logan eviscerate Remy if it doesn't? Let's find out.

As always, responses and reviews are appreciated, as are any suggestions.

Enticement

By Alara

Chapter 1

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Like, _c'moooon,_ Rogue!" Kitty Pryde rapped impatiently on the door. _Again._ Seriously, sometimes she swore Rogue ignored her just to tick her off. Immediately, she felt bad for thinking such a thing. It wasn't Rogue's fault, exactly, that she was antisocial… and non-girly… and never seemed to have fun…

Okay, well, it _was_ Rogue's decision to _be_ most of those things, but it was up to her, Kitty Pryde, to drag her friend out of the doldrums—by force, if necessary. Rogue was _going_ to have fun tonight if it killed Kitty to make it happen.

Especially since it might kill her _not _to. Kitty had been cornered by a concerned-but-trying-not-to-show-it Logan a little while ago, after he learned that Rogue, out of all the teens living at Xavier's mansion, had not been asked to the Homecoming dance in two months. He had extracted a promise from Kitty that she'd do her best to get Rogue to be sociable, and, hopefully, get a date to the dance. Well, of course Mr. Logan hadn't exactly _said_ that's what she was to do, but that's how Kitty was choosing to interpret it. "Get Rogue out of the house instead of lying around; I _don't_ want to have to deal with a sulky teenager all fall" had been his exact words.

Kitty chose to read between the lines, especially since she'd caught the look Logan had given Rogue when the Homecoming Dance had come up again at dinner the previous evening. "I'm taking Amanda, of course," Kurt said, and looked worriedly around. "You _frauleins_ will help me make everything perfect for her, _ja?"_

"Of course," Jean had laughed. "If you'll help _me_ decide whether to go with Duncan or not."

"_Duncan _asked you?" Scott asked suddenly, gripping his fork a little too hard—especially for the soup he was eating. "Why would _he_ ask _you_? I mean, ask you so early?"

"I dunno," the redhead shrugged, and laughed. "I think he's making sure he's not left out—I heard he asked Jen today but she turned him down. Apparently she's going with Craig."

"What?" Kitty screeched. "But I heard Craig asked Bonnie!"

"No, the other Craig."

"Oh." Kitty heaved a sigh of relief. "Bonnie's my Chem partner, and she's bad enough that I do _not_ need her all emotional and crying when we're trying to neutralize acids. One near-death experience a semester is, like, totally enough for me. There's only so much phasing I can do without being noticed." A chuckle ran round the table, as Bonnie's Chem disasters were a running joke in Bayville High.

"But I have to decide who to go with, too," Kitty told them. "I found _three_ notes in my locker this afternoon, from Joe, Lance, and Steve. And we all know what a note means…"

"Speaking of notes, _here's _something interesting," Jean said in a singsong, smiling happily. "_Guess whose _locker I saw Jeremy putting a note into? And of course, as Kitty just told us, there's only _one_ reason a guy puts a note into a girl's locker _this _close to a dance."  
"This is _close?"_ Logan was heard to mutter in disbelief. He paid closer attention, though, as Kitty willingly took the bait, asking eagerly, "No. Whose? Ohmigod," she gasped. "Not Jess? 'Cause she's had a crush on him, like, for-_ever."_

"Nope." Jean said. Obviously, this level of excitement was above what Jess could engender. "I just wonder why she hasn't said anything to us yet…" she paused dramatically. "Why is that, Rogue?"

"Rogue?!" Kitty screeched, nearly levitating off her chair in excitement. "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmi_god_! I had _no idea_ Jeremy liked you!"

Rogue slouched lower in her seat, her cheeks flaming red, but not for the reason Kitty and Jean assumed. "Uhm, actually… the note _was_ for Jess. She has locker 623, I have locker 632. Jeremy got the numbers mixed up. I guess he was excited," she added, shrugging, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't want to go to a dumb dance, anyway." Abruptly, she stood up, keeping her eyes on the plate in her hands. "Excuse me, I've got homework," she muttered, and took her plate out to the kitchen. Logan's eyes followed her out of the room, concern hidden in their depths.

An awkward silence fell over the table. Jean dropped her head into her hands, mortified. "Oh, I really blew it," she sighed. "I feel so _bad…_I thought that she… and to make her have to _say_ a guy gave her a note _accidentally_…that he _doesn't_ like her… I—oh… poor Rogue. _How_ am I going to make this up to her?"

That had given Kitty her plan, to have a Girls' Night Out on Friday, the next day. The other girls agreed, it was just the thing to get Rogue to forget all about Jeremy and his stupid note, and if they were lucky, maybe some guy would flirt with Rogue and make her feel better. Jean promised to encourage any interest she sensed, and they agreed to make _sure_ Rogue was the best-looking amongst them.

Kitty was nominated to get Rogue's agreement, which she secured simply by nagging her 'til Rogue sighed, half-listening by that point, "_Fine_. Whatever. Just—let me get my homework done, ok?" Kitty had skipped out of the room, and quickly informed the others that Girls' Night Out was a go.

Except that now, their guest of honor wasn't opening her door. Kitty knocked once more, and let her annoyance show as she said, "Rogue? If you don't open the door, I'm coming through it." A final knock, and she followed through on her threat.

Rogue lay across her bed, headphones on, nodding her head in time to the music as she turned another page, oblivious to anything else. She wasn't dressed to go out—and obviously had no plans to remedy that situation. Really mad now, Kitty marched up to her, pulled one earphone off of her head, and snapped, "Rouge, you are _not_ getting out of going out tonight!"

Rogue squawked in surprise, nearly falling off the bed. "Good _Lord,_ Kitty, ya nearly scared the life out o' me!"

"Well, I'm about ready to _hurt _the life out of you! You are _so_ not getting out of this!" Kitty fumed, then calmed as Rogue's expression remained bewildered. "Girls' Night Out? Helloooo?"

"Is that _tonight?"_ Rogue asked, surprised, and took in Kitty's supercute outfit of skirt, tank top, and over-long unbuttoned button-down shirt. Her face fell, a little. "Well, if you all are ready to go already, don't bother waitin' on me. It's my fault, since I didn't make sure _which_ night 'this weekend' you meant. I can just get my English homework done."

Kitty gave her a look. "Rogue, no normal teenage girl does _homework_ on a _Friday._ Besides—" she glanced at the book "—You've already read everything Jane Austen wrote at _least _twice, you do not have to re-read it for AP English."

"Says who," Rogue grumbled half-heartedly, getting up. "You're _sure_ you don't just want to go without me?"

"No, Rogue, we'll wait for you, just throw on some makeup and a cute outfit. It won't take too long," Kitty assured her, and faltered when a perplexed expression crossed Rogue's face. She amended her statement. "Well, okay, 'cute' on you probably wouldn't work, but just throw on something… nice. Attractive. Whatever, you get my drift. Maybe your red top? I think we're going dancing. We'll see you downstairs in, like, fifteen minutes."

"Okay," Rogue said as the door closed behind her friend. Despite her intention to wallow in a good upset, her friends' obvious attempts to make her feel better were working—a little. She hated to admit how good it had felt when she'd opened her locker yesterday and the unexpected note had tumbled out. Every other girl in school seemed to be getting notes by the dozen, sly not-quite invitations to the dance, question-and-answer notes seeking to determine whether a girl liked someone, or _like_ liked someone, riddles trying to sort out who'd been asked already—and who'd accepted. It seemed that every other girl in Bayville was involved in this marvelous game of Tag, where being It meant a boy _liked_ you, and there wasn't a girl who didn't want to be It for _someone._ Even Rogue, cynical, sarcastic, and stand-offish, wasn't immune. Though a mutant, she _was_ still a human, and a teenage girl.

But nobody wanted her, it seemed, 'til that small, carefully folded bit of notebook paper had tipped out of the top shelf of her locker. She'd looked around quickly, trying to see if anyone was watching her—or carefully _not_ watching her—but it was impossible to tell in the afternoon crush. So she bent and swiftly scooped up the paper, and hurried into the girls' room to read it in private. She peeked at the paper. _From Jeremy,_ it read across one side of the square. She felt a thrill of excitement: _Jeremy?!_ She sort of liked him, even was sort-of crushing on him since it was now obvious to everybody (but Jean) that Scott had eyes _only _for Jean; she'd given Scott up at least two months ago. Well, a month and a half, at the _very_ least.

Jeremy was on the basketball team, not a starter, but still had that vague 'more popular than _me_' aura that all sports players, however poor, seemed to have. He kept his blonde hair spiked, and it went very well with his sparkling blue eyes and slightly crooked teeth. He sat in front of her in calculus, and while he wasn't a brilliant scholar (he'd die in one class discussion in AP English, she was certain), he always seemed to have something funny to say and a smile to share.

And, well, sure, he always seemed to be staring across the row at Jess, with her perfect long honey-blonde mane and peachy skin, but he talked to Rogue, too. And she couldn't blame him for staring at Jess, either; _she_ wished, sometimes, just a little, that her own appearance was just a bit more like Jess' traditional good looks. Rogue's dark auburn hair with its bizarre white streaks earned her confusion from boys, not interest. Add into the mix the fact her skin was so pale that those white streaks nearly blended into her alabaster skin. Its pallor was the result of a genetic tendency to paleness maximized by the years-long necessity of shielding her skin from any touch—so even the sun was denied her—and it was no wonder she became Goth in everyday style. Better to have everyone think she was an antisocial freak on purpose than pity her for being an albino, or whatever. At least there was a social niche for 'antisocial freak,' however far down the food chain it was. Being pitied put you _off_ the chain altogether, and that wasn't something _any_ teenager aspired to.

She gripped the folded note, suddenly nervous as she realized there was really only _one_ reason for Jeremy to have slipped her a note: the Homecoming Dance.

Was she actually going to be asked this year? _And_ _by_ _Jeremy_? Heck, being asked by _anyone_ would be an improvement, would prove she wasn't such a loser that _no one_ would ask her. But still, to be asked by Jeremy—!

It would depend, she decided, on what _exactly _the note said. He could, after all, just be asking her for calc notes. She had to prepare herself in case it _wasn't _an invitation.

Hope bubbled up, all the same. But of course it _was _an invitation. She turned the note over, to figure out how to unfold it without tearing it—and she stared at the square in her hand, shocked, quite unprepared for this:

_To Jess, with hope._ A lopsided heart was drawn around the quartet of words. As though to mock her, in tiny print, underneath the heart was written, _Please please open this!_

_To Jess._ Well, she couldn't blame him—hadn't she envied the girl her looks? Who _would_ prefer the bland over the beautiful? And she could hardly blame _Jess,_ that would be as unfair as blaming the sky for being blue.

Which left only herself to blame in this trio. She sighed resignedly as she shoved the note desultorily into Jess' locker, wishing her the best of luck—and wishing Homecoming was over, already, and not still looming two months away.

_Two friggin' months._ Well, at least she'd been crushed already, and maybe by the time the other girls at Xavier's were ready to begin their serious shopping, she'd be in a better mood to advise them. And there was no chance of further heartbreak—bleak optimism, that, but true: the only boys at school who ever talked to her who were not living at the Institute were Jeremy, who'd just been firmly crossed off her list, Lance, who was head-over-heels for Kitty, and Toad and Blob. She winced. She certainly wasn't _that_ desperate, and it would be better by far to not go to the dance at all than to show up with either of _those_ misfits. Besides, Toad would be certain to ruin her dress somehow, and Blob would probably accidentally sit on her and kill her, or something. _Definitely_ better to not go.

As for this Girls' Night Out thing of Kitty's, well, she just wouldn't expect much of it, and then hopefully she couldn't end up disappointed again. Twice in one week would really be too much…

She pondered her closet, and finally shrugged: the dark red top, maroon really, that Kitty had suggested was as good as anything for going out on a somewhat chill early September night. Its rich color, reminiscent of dark rose petals, or port wine, was one of a handful of colors that made her skin look luminous instead of sallow. Its wide, scooped neck traced just an inch or so below her collarbones, but the smooth fit made the best of what figure she had—no, better to not think of another way the amazing Jess beat her in the attractiveness department. The only thing she had that went with the top was a pair of black jeans she rarely wore because they were so tight-fitting, and then of course the only thing to go with _those_ was the pair of heeled black boots Kitty had given her last winter.

Lastly she clipped on the matched pair of cuff bracelets the Professor, Beast, and Storm had cobbled together for her over the summer. They dampened her absorption powers for five hours, and were perfect for a night out. The Professor and Beast had actually had bracelets—of a sort—ready for her a month before she received them, but Storm, bless her, had taken one look at the clunky, manacle-like devices, and utterly refused to let them give the bracelets to her until they were, as Storm said, "something a sixteen-year-old will actually _wear_ on a date." Fortunately, Logan hadn't been present for that conversation (the notion of Rogue dating _still_ sent him through the roof), and the Professor and Beast, neither of whom had ever been teenage girls, were forced to bow to her superior experience, and modified the bracelets with Storm's assistance.

They were now pretty chased silver cuffs that fit snugly around the narrow part of her arms just above the wrist bone. They were nice enough to be able to ear them formally—"Say, to a dance or dinner," Storm had winked—yet they were not so flashy they'd be out of place with jeans and a shirt. In any case, they worked, which was all Rogue asked of them. She was, however, grateful for Storm's interference.

It was a little easier to forget about the bracelets—and her powers—when they looked like jewelry. When she was wearing them, she could pretend, if only for a few hours, that she was a normal girl, one that guys were actually interested in. She rarely danced when they went to the club, wary still about touching others casually, in case the bracelets somehow failed. The few guys she'd danced with… well… no one she'd met ever asked for her number, or anything, but still… It was nice to pretend for a little, one song at a time, that she was a normal girl.


	2. Chapter 2

Enticement

By Alara

Chapter 2

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rogue examined herself in the mirror as she finished the last touch of makeup: okay, she had to give it to Kitty, the dark red top did marvelous things for her skin, and her for-once minimal makeup made her eyes seem attractively dark in her face. She decided she'd be satisfied if she got asked to dance once tonight—no, that's right, she wasn't expecting _anything_ from this Girls' Night Out. Right. So she'd just go out, try to have a good time, and then be ready for Life As Usual on Monday. She'd just pretend the note mix-up had never happened, never hurt her… yeah. Besides, neither Jeremy nor Jess _knew_ Rogue had accidentally received the note first, and she had nothing against either of them. And who wanted to go to the stupid Homecoming Dance, anyway? _Well… actually, _I _want to go._

She quickly quashed the traitorous thought, ruthlessly ignoring it as she made her way downstairs. Kitty, Jean, Tabitha, Amara, and, to Rogue's surprise, Amanda were waiting for her. When she saw Rogue's outfit, Kitty squealed, "Ooh, Rogue, that's a _great_ outfit! I _love_ it!"

Rogue eyed her, amused at her friend's easy excitement. "Well, _you_ suggested it."

"I did? Oh. Well, it still looks fab!" With that, and a giggle, Kitty seized Rogue's arm and led them out to the cars. There were too many of them to fit into one, and no one wanted to take the X-Van. Jean, Amara, and Amanda were going in Scott's car—Scott had lost a bet, and everyone but Jean realized he'd lost on purpose, to make her happy. Kitty, Tabitha, and Rogue were traveling in Rogue's used black '04 Mustang. The Professor had bought it as a birthday present for Rogue, citing her as the most responsible and level-headed of the 'younger' team members. He had offered to buy new, but she decided she didn't want the insurance rate hike—it was high enough as it was.

Wolverine, of course, had insisted on seeing how bad of a driver she was before he let her get behind the wheel. He'd ended by demanding to know how many counts of grand theft auto were on her record, anyway? "Logan," she'd laughed—it wasn't often Logan was discombobulated—"When you're from the South, an' you know _anyone_ with a farm, you end up learning how to drive the farm trucks by the time you're ten. There are always supplies to be hauled from one end o' the farm to the other." He subsided, grumbling, but had to admit she was more than capable of driving, and reluctantly handed over the keys to her car.

"But driving is a _privilege_," he'd told her, "and it can be taken away just as easily." He seemed to relish the thought.

She sighed, a little, remembering that conversation as she slid in behind the wheel. Logan just did not want to let her, out of all the X-men, grow up, for some reason.

"Rogue," Kitty wheedled from the passenger seat, "Rogue, can I, like, pretty pleeeease drive on the way back?"

"In _my_ car? At _night?_ I don't think so." Kitty's inability to drive in a straight line was already becoming legendary.

"But I need the practice. Mr. Logan says so," she added virtuously.

"_No."_

"Then, can I?" Tabitha popped up from the back seat.

Rogue gave her a look in the rearview mirror. "Tabby, you don't even have your permit."

"So?" The blonde shrugged. "_You_ were driving when you were, like, eight or something."

"That was different," Rogue frowned, guiding the car around a corner, wishing Logan hadn't told everyone _that_ little fact about her past. "Those were trucks that were so old you couldn't take 'em on the roads, and 'til I was eleven there was always an adult there with me."

"Hmph." Tabitha sat back, but Rogue got the feeling she was only trying to come up with more arguments. A moment later, she exhaled in relief as she found a parking space close to the under-21 club they were going to, Fire and Ice. As soon as she got Tabitha near the dance floor, the younger girl would forget all about her plan to drive home. Rogue hoped.

They met the others outside the club, and got in line.

Rogue looked around, seeing if anyone else she knew was here—a lot of the high school crowd ended up here Friday nights. She hoped Jeremy didn't decide to show up tonight. Monday, she could handle seeing him. Tonight… well. She scanned the crowd, a little anxiously now, hoping not to see him.

At the front of the line, a tall figure standing in the shadow of the door drew her eye, like a lodestone to a magnet. She couldn't see his face, as the shadows seemed to gather around where he was standing. She jumped a little as the object of her scrutiny suddenly turned and looked in her direction, startlement in his body language. For a second, Rogue could swear he was looking right at _her…_

He jerked a little, looking away as the bouncer tapped him on the shoulder, indicating he could enter the club. The bouncer's face showed a little suspicion in the lights, but cleared when the tall young man leaned down and said something that made the bouncer laugh in that "boys' club" way that men laugh sometimes. _Usually at a girl's expense, _Rogue thought sourly, and jumped in surprise as Kitty tugged her forward. "Like, _c'mon_, Rogue, where's your head? We're going to get inside soon. Keep the line moving."

"Oh. Sorry." Rogue shook her head, and looked toward the front of the line, much closer now. The tall figure was nowhere in sight. She shook her head again at her own idiocy. _C'mon, Rogue, he was obviously looking for someone in particular, and 'someone in particular' you aren't. How sad are you, thinking a stranger would look at you for _any_ reason? Even the guys you _know_ don't look twice at you. _The slight depression she'd been holding off since the whole Homecoming Dance frenzy had started settled lightly over her. She forced a smile for Kitty's benefit, and as they were at the front of the line by this time, dug her ID out of her wallet for the bouncer's inspection.

_Well, to hell with them all,_ she decided fatalistically as their group was waved inside, a wave of hot, moist air rolling over them as they entered the crowded dance club. _It's going to be a new Rogue tonight. I'm just going to go crazy and party and have _fun _tonight_,_ damnit, and if a guy wants to dance with me, I'll dance, and not worry that he won't ever come back for another. I'll just move on to the next guy. And if another guy doesn't walk up, I'll find one._ _And I won't worry about the bracelets working—in fact, I think I'll just see exactly how much contact they can take. _Now determined, she let Kitty tow her toward the dance floor.

As usual, Kitty asked, "So, like, are you going to dance this time?"

The shock that crossed the brunette's face was priceless as Rogue answered, "Sure. Why not?" She breezed past Kitty's openmouthed face onto the dance floor. A squeal of delight pierced the bass thumping in the air, and Kitty quickly caught up with her; the others were a moment behind.

The next hour or so was confusion: of faces flickering in and out of the flashing lights, of hands skipping across her shoulders as she wove in and out of the pulsing dance, of the quick splash of a drink Kitty shoved into her hand, too sugary and sweet and somehow exactly what she wanted. Kitty vanished into another part of the crowd, and Rogue danced with strangers. A few times she shivered involuntarily, her nape hairs lifting, as though she were being watched, or was in danger. No doubt it was her subconscious warning her about being touched so much, and so often, by so many. Finally she thrust herself out of the crush, sweaty and keyed up, collapsing onto a chair at the first empty table she found. Her heart was racing, and she drew deep breaths, trying to calm down, order her thoughts.

"_Bon nuit, cherie,"_ A silken voice came out of the darkness; the table wasn't empty after all. She made to jump up, apologizing, when a long-fingered hand extended from across the table, gripping her wrist gently. "Don't worry. Sit here if you'd like. You're taking no one's seat. In fact," the voice continued. "I wouldn't mind some company." He leaned forward into the dim light as he spoke, and Rogue's breath stopped. He was simply the most beautiful guy she'd ever seen—auburn hair grown long fell across his face to a chiseled jaw line and a firm mouth. What she could see of his body was solid and well-proportioned; his skin was so smooth it seemed to beautify the little light, instead of the other way around.

She was abruptly certain he was the tall guy she'd seen entering the club a couple of hours earlier. The one who'd—_no,_ he had _not_ been looking at her. But why was he talking to her now? She lifted her gaze to his, confused, and abruptly found her breath as she gasped: his eyes were onyx-black, red irises like flames flickering in their depths. He looked away quickly at her gasp, examining the glass he held loosely in his hand; the other still held her wrist, one finger tracing unconsciously over her racing pulse. "I'm new in town," he offered, still not looking at her. "I thought it would be nice to know a couple of people before I start school on Monday, and everyone said that Fire and Ice was the place to be on Friday night. Apparently, dey were right." He gestured at the roiling crowd. "De name is Remy LeBeau. And you?"

"Rogue," she got out, confused again. He was still in high school? But he seemed—well, no, he didn't _look_ any older than seventeen, eighteen at most, but something about the way he held himself spoke of a much longer time—but then, she was being silly, looking for a reason to _not_ be charmed by this charming young man, whose smile was coaxing her into relaxing at the table. And she'd already decided to be crazy tonight…

"Just Rogue?" he asked. "No family name?" He glanced at her, then away again, his jaw clenching.

She threw him a tight smile, focusing the thoughts that scattered every time his eyes met hers. "Nope. Just Rogue." She strongly suspected, from her racing pulse, shallow breath, that she was deeply attracted to this fascinating stranger, and told herself to settle down; it wasn't like she'd ever talk to him again. As soon as someone like Jenny, or Jess, walked by, she was sure the table _would_ be empty except for her.

"Interesting," he murmured. "So which school do you attend, Rogue? Or will I only get to see you at dis club? I'd like to, you know," he added, as though in response to her self-deprecating thoughts.

_See me? He wants to see me after tonight? Maybe this being crazy thing works…_ She realized he'd asked her a question. "Uh—oh, Bayville High."

A grin that nearly blinded her with its eagerness split his face, making him even _more_ attractive, if that was possible. "Bayville!" he exclaimed, dragging her spiraling attention back. "Dat's where I'm enrolled!"

Her eyebrows rose. "Seriously?" What were the chances? There were five local high schools.

"Seriously. Come now, let me dance wit' de mos' beautiful girl at Bayville High befo' her boyfriend comes and beats me to a pulp." He winked, and rose, and she realized he'd never let go of her wrist as he headed for the dance floor, pulling her along with him.

As they wove their way back into the crush, she shouted, "I don't," up at him. His brow crumpled in confusion amid the din—he hadn't heard her.

She nearly passed out from excitement—good _Lord,_ but he was attractive—as his arms loosely encircled her and his head dropped to almost rest on her shoulder. His breath was warm on her ear. "What'd you say?"

"I said, I don't have one. A boyfriend." She said into his ear, and her voice, or her breath on his ear, seemed to have the same effect on him as his breath and voice had on her; his arms briefly tensed around her.

Another grin, a smoldering one this time, sliced his face. "Good. Den no one will mind if I dance real close…" he said softly, eeling behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist, and pulling her to him as the music abruptly picked up in tempo, deep, earthy beats thrumming through the floor.

She was glad for the support of his arm, since at the sensation of so much of him pressed against her back, her hormones went insane, tingling through every inch of oversensitive skin. His breath on her neck felt like a caress, and his hand at her waist traced distracting patterns across her hip. His other hand, meanwhile, trailed down her face, down her neck, across the swell of her shoulder, and down her arm to tangle with her own limp hand. _Give in_, something inside urged, and she let herself relax against him, relaxed yet tense as she shrugged her shoulders into his chest, moving her hips against his. He groaned, tightening his grip on her waist as he ducked his face to brush along the line of smooth exposed skin from her collarbone up her throat to her flushed face. He left her only once, for a moment, citing a call of nature, and glued himself to her the moment he got back, burying his face in the crook of her neck, her hair brushing his face. For a split second she was almost sure his lips teased at the skin of her neck, then he sighed something like, "Not yet," under his breath, and pulled back. She only heard him because he was so close.

He started to say something, but stopped; she turned her face to look up into his face, which had a curious strain to it, as they swayed and moved together. "Has anyone ever told you that you smell…intoxicating?" he breathed into her ear, sending her hormones into another tizzy of delight. She quivered.

"No… no, I can't say that anyone has," she managed to reply. His chuckle warmed her to her bones, melting them with its sensuality.

"Well, you do," he informed her, and she shuddered against him again as his breath brushed her skin. Abruptly tension entered his frame where it rested against her, and to her bewilderment, he was suddenly making a farewell, citing the late hour, and he 'had to be home soon.' "I _will_ see you on Monday," he promised, bowing as he slid away from her, passing his mouth across her wrist as he released her hand, not quite a kiss, but enough to cause her eyes to close as she shivered in reaction, yet again. He seemed to do that to her.

When she opened her eyes a second later, Kitty was bouncing in place beside her, oblivious to the fact that the most incredible guy had just—vanished—

Rogue looked around wildly, sure that his height must make him stand apart from the crowd, but there was no sign of Remy LeBeau. Apparently it _was_ late, since Kitty was peering at her, a concerned expression on her face. "Rogue? Are you, like, okay? You look a little pale. And clammy. Do you want to go home?"

"Yeah…" Rogue answered vaguely. "Home would be good." She kept looking for him, even though it was hopeless to find anyone in _this _mess, but snapped her attention back to Kitty as she heard, "…Maybe I should drive. You don't look good." A hopeful expression was on Kitty's face, despite the concerned tone.

"_I_ will drive," Rogue snapped, forcing a smile to soften the statement as annoyance at Remy—at guys in general—washed over her. "It's just a little warm in here." _A little warm. _She scoffed at herself. If Remy'd kept touching her, breathing on her, she was sure she would have spontaneously combusted. Rogue suddenly had a whole new understanding of why attractive people were labeled 'hot.' And, oh, wasn't Remy…

"C'mon," she said, distracting herself from thoughts that wanted to wander down _very_ naughty paths, "let's find the others and go. It's late; Logan will be waiting up."

Kitty went pale, herself, as she checked her watch. "Oh, no! Like, we've got to leave _now_ or we'll be in trouble!" Startled, Rogue checked her own timepiece, and was startled to see how late it was.

By hurrying, and driving just a _little _faster than usual, they made it into the mansion before Logan could get really mad. He stopped her as she went by. "Stripes. You smell like a guy's been around you," he said suspiciously.  
"I danced tonight." She returned evenly. Did he ever ask any of the _other _girls whose scent was on them? Noo. Of _course_ not.

Openly surprised, he said, "But you _never_ dance."

She was a little nettled; wasn't she allowed to have a good time? "Well, tonight I _did._ With a _lot_ of guys," she added, just to annoy him. She ignored his growl as she jogged up the stairs. "I had fun," she added, and he looked a little mollified. "It's late, I'm going to bed. G'night."

"Night," he grumbled, and went to lock up.

She successfully held her jumbled mix of emotions at bay 'til she was alone in her room. Then they washed over her like ocean waves, her annoyance at Remy's abrupt disappearance giving way to a faint hope of Monday, which in turn was overtaken by the irrevocable fact that once he caught sight of the other, prettier girls, he'd never look at her again. And he _would_ get sight of them—they'd make sure of it once they saw _him,_ far cuter than any other guy at Bayville. And it hurt, curiously, despite the fact she _knew_ it was coming, it was just that she hadn't ever felt such instantaneous sheer _physical attraction_—she blushed at the thought—for someone before.

She was giving in to resignation as she changed, when something fell out of her back jeans pocket. She picked it up, curious. It was a playing card, the seven of hearts. Elegant black script wove around the red marks. "The card of wishes and dreams," it read. "Dream of me; I pine for Monday. RL." When had he—oh. When he'd returned from the restroom, he'd slid his hands around her waist teasingly before resuming his earlier pose.

A thrill went through her, casting resignation away as she threw herself onto her bed and squealed into her pillow, suddenly understanding Kitty's frequent bouts of puppy love. Of course, she frowned, she surely hoped this was a little more than puppy love. She'd had crushes before, but none of them had ever… _resonated _as deeply as this. Something inside her, something so basic it was almost animalistic, responded irresistibly to something in Remy that seemed to draw her in. _Then again_, practicality reasserted itself, _you have to see if this… infatuation, or whatever, lasts through Monday and the Parade of Prettier Girls than Me. Which it won't. So… I guess I should get myself ready to be let down—but enjoy this while it lasts. _Her heartbeat quickened at the mere mental image of him, brushing beside her in the wildly flashing lights. _And he is so, so enjoyable._ She glanced at the card. _I pine for Monday._

Yeah, all things considered, she couldn't wait for Monday, either.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	3. Chapter 3

Well, folks, here's chapter three up for your enjoyment. Sorry it's taken a while; I'm afraid my computer was zapped by a HUUUGE power surge that actually knocked out the surge box, and then the computer. :( So I have no access to my story notes for any of my fics, nor any access to my half-writ chapters. I'll do my best to recreate them, however, and hopefully I will be able to salvage the files from the hard drive soon.

I also do not have MS Word, so PLEASE tell me about any typos or things that got by me. Thanks in advance!

As always, please review, and enjoy! --Alara

Enticement

by Alara

Chapter 3

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She didn't sleep at all Friday night, and Saturday dragged by—Logan asked her if she were sick, and actually seemed to mean it. She woke Sunday morning after a restless night. Oh, she'd slept, all right, only to get lost in pleasingly sensual dreams prominently featuring Remy LeBeau and herself.

She woke, twisted in her damp sheets, somehow missing his arms around her more now than when he'd left so abruptly Friday night.

The day seemed both too long and to fly by. She spent most of it writing her English essay. She glanced up when Jean knocked on her door frame. "Dinner," the redhead invited briefly, and moved on to collect more people for the table.

Astonished, Rogue looked at the clock: 6pm. A bizarre mixture of terror and excitement ran through her—terror, because she no longer had a day in which to prepare to see him again—excitement, because it was only a matter of hours before she'd see him again.

She thought about it as she wandered downstairs to dinner. How would she react to being near him? She could easily see herself plastering her body to his, to sate the craving for touch he'd woken in her. Equally, she could see herself staying as far away as possible from him, to make the inevitable separation easier.

Of course, if he simply ignored her—or pretended she didn't exist—or didn't show up at all—it would be a moot point. Somehow, though, she didn't think he'd do any of those things—it sounded corny even in her own head, but she thought that they'd made a connection Friday night.

_Probably just mutually overactive hormones,_ she thought wryly. _Well, I guess I'll find out if he's interested one way or another, tomorrow. I just hope it doesn't hurt too much…_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Across town, Remy LeBeau paced as waited for his mentor and onetime sort-of girlfriend Belladonna to pick up the phone. For a short while after their breakup, they'd been bitter enemies. The brief enmity, which lasted five years, was mostly due to Belladonna's blasé admission (after he'd been turned and was no longer tasty) that she'd been merely using Remy for his blood, and didn't _love_-love him after all. In the ensuing hundred and ten years, though, they'd managed to work things out, and he now considered the beautiful Assassin Guildmaster one of his closest friends. She was, after all, one of the few who could remember him as he'd been in life.

She'd never intended to turn him—and in fact had not turned him herself. Though she'd drunk from him many times, she could be certain she hadn't been the ending of him, because it took a willful decision on the drinker's part to turn the victim into a vampire like herself.

No, turning him had been her sometimes-"brother" Julien's doing, in a fit of jealousy at Belladonna's then-current preference for the eighteen-year-old human. He claimed he _hadn't _been trying to turn Remy. "I just wanted to drain him," he claimed, "and kill him, so Belladonna wouldn't have her… distraction around."

Well, he got half of his wish: Remy was turned instead of killed, and so was no longer a temptation for Belladonna, but he was now as eternal as the rest of them. Since one _had _to decide, on some level, to turn one's victim instead of just drinking from them, no-one believed he'd turned Remy accidentally. Julien had sullenly pointed out that it had probably been a subconscious decision, to avoid hurting Belladonna; why would he want his chief rival for Belladonna's affections around forever?

When he'd been human, Remy had thought he and Belladonna had been dating, sort of; Belladonna, it turned out, simply couldn't resist the lure of his blood, mutants' blood being especially intoxicating. Remy's annoyance at what he saw as Belladonna's misrepresentation of what, exactly, their relationship was only lasted a few years, to Julien's chagrin, as it eventually brought the pair into a closer friendship.

After he'd been turned, it had fallen to Belladonna to teach Remy since Julien flatly refused to do so. Her job had been made more difficult by Remy's initial feelings of betrayal, but as his after-death experience grew, his anger gradually turned to acceptance, and a grudging understanding that Belladonna _had _been unable to help luring him into being her food source.

She assured him that, while he was her source, she truly loved him, after a fashion. This assertion annoyed him—he'd only _liked _her, whereas she claimed to have _loved _him—and yet _he _was the more deeply affected by their unexpected 'breakup.' "I loved you, _in a way_," she reminded him. "I wasn't _in _love with you, but those who are vampires _must _love their victims. But we don't have to be in love with them, and I wasn't in love with you."

"Why do you _have _to love them?" he asked suspiciously, assuming she was trying to make him feel better.

"Because otherwise, we'd drain the world," she returned simply. "You know firsthand now how strong the thirst is. We _have _to love them at least enough to allow them to live _every time we drink from them_. If we didn't, the temptation to just keep drinking would be too strong to resist. Resisting the temptation to drain them is harder since we must be attracted to our victims, and they to us, before they can become our sources. But for the victims' sake, we love them, even as we kill them, drop by drop. And our victims would never say a thing to defend their own lives, even if they didn't at least like us to begin with—_you _know why."

She'd given him an arch look that, while he'd been alive, had been irresistibly flirtatious. Now he saw it as the friendly, slightly mocking look it truly was.

"Yeah, being bitten feels—almost like—well—" he stuttered, and flushed. Even a young man as decidedly on the wrong side of the law as he had been in life found it difficult to speak frankly on matters romantic—or sexual. It was 1893, after all, and some things were Simply Not Talked About, in polite _or _impolite society.

"The word you're looking for is 'orgasmic,'" Belladonna said dryly, sparing his embarrassment only a little. "Because the feelings are so powerful, our victims would never, ever, notice if we went beyond that thin line of life into death. Humans are so very fragile."

He nodded, knowing this to be true, "So, to find a source, we must be attracted to them? And they to us?"

Belladonna smiled; now he'd been turned, somehow it was less dazzling a smile than when he'd been human. "Yes, but most of the time they can't help being attracted to our kind." He nodded again; he'd been turned for only some months, but some of the offers he'd received in his reborn, refined, more beautiful state would be shocking for the twenty-first century, let

alone the late nineteenth.

"So, mutual attraction is first. Then, once having drunk, we are compelled to love our victims?" Remy asked, trying to keep things straight.

"Yes. But it usually is 'love' like one would 'love' a very dear friend—we're fiercely protective of our chosen victims and their lives, but it doesn't shatter us when they go away, and we can find a new one every couple of years. Well," she amended, "not unless you actually fall in love with her, which is generally not recommended. Of course, one can't help when one falls in love, but it's generally good to resist it if at all possible. It's why choosing one's victims carefully is so very, very important to our kind."

"Why is falling in love 'not recommended'? Wouldn't it make the vampire that much more protective of his victim?"

"Their blood is all the more tempting, and harder to resist, and usually—though not always—the victim must eventually choose between staying with his vampire lover or his fellow humans. We don't fully understand why—perhaps it has to do with our eternal nature—but in every account of a vampire and victim falling in love, it's been a fast, committed, hopelessly-in-love sort of thing. You've heard, of course, of Romeo and Juliet? They were one such case. In the play, their story ends in 'death' because in the actual Romeo and Juliet's case, people had started to notice odd things about them. For instance, the victim stops aging as long as she is feeding her partner, which tends to get noticed by the other humans after a decade or so. Juliet was just under sixteen when she fell in love with her Romeo, and people certainly noticed when she stopped growing. They had to stage their deaths to escape undetected, and a chancy thing _that _was.

"You see, after some time has passed in the relationship—a decade or two—the borrowed years will catch up with the victim if, for some reason, they do not feed their vampire at least once every three days. The years catch up within hours," she added, "so it's never pretty. To be in love with one's victim is to eternally limit oneself to one source, for both victim and vampire's sakes."  
"The _vampire's_ sake?" Remy repeated, startled.

"Yes. If the victim expires suddenly, more often than not the vampire starves himself into nonexistence; the blood of any other is nearly impossible to drink, after loving only one so long."

Remy pondered this a moment, "Well, what happens if the victim is turned, eventually, instead, before the years could catch up with him?"

"Well, the pair is still in love, but each must find a source… As you know, feeding can be a very intimate experience. Sometimes the jealousy makes both wish the victim had died, instead. But sometimes it works out, if the bond is strong enough." At Remy's faintly horrified look, Belladonna patted his hand reassuringly. "But don't worry, _chere_… Those kinds of trueloves are rare in first life, and rarer still for our kind. But do write me if you ever think you've mired yourself in true-love; I'll come and help you." She'd laughed as though the idea of Remy being in love was ludicrious, but he sensed the offer was genuine, all the same.

Hence, the phone call to Belladonna, who was currently living in Venezuela.

Remy hoped he'd got the time change right. Apparently he had, as the line clicked and Belladonna's dulcet tones cooed a greeting at him.

"Belladonna? Remy." A squeal answered this information; apparently he hadn't called in a while. He caught part of her greeting. It had been seven years? Oops. A babble of questions followed the greeting; Remy answered the most important one first.

"I called because—I think I may be in love. Or in danger of being in love, at any rate." At the other end of the line, she calmed, and began firing sensible statements and questions at him.

"I don't know; I suppose it's like it was between you and me. Before your brother—no, _don't _tell me you still believe he turned me subconsciously, or accidentally, or—. Yes, I _know _he was new. I also know, given the choice between ending my life or giving himself the opportunity to hunt and torment me forever, which one he'd choose." A pause, a sigh. "Yes, I know. I'll be careful. But anyway..." He described the nearly instantaneous obesssion he'd felt upon seeing Rogue at the club. "Was it this powerful for you? Every second I was near her, I wanted her in every way it's possible to want a human. I've never felt a pull so strong. But she's so innocent and hurting and wishing to be loved… No. I'm enrolled in the local high school; I look too young to not be in school. Yes, she is. No, I didn't know—I enrolled before I met her. I don't know how I'm going to stand being near her every day—how long I'll last before I'll have to tell her."

Another gabble at him in response to this. "Oh, there's no question about _that_. Now that I know she's here, I find I cannot think of leaving—the very idea is insanity. Before last night, I could have left without a problem. Now—well, I feel that the sun would stop shining at noon, first." A squawk of surprise from the earpiece.

"Yes, that strong, as soon as I laid eyes on her—no—as soon as I scented her. We danced—I could smell her lust and just wanted her more…" He groaned, and paused, as Belladonna spoke to him quickly. He replied agressively. "I tell you, she _will _be mine, as I was _never _truly yours, and I won't let anything part us." He sighed, hopelessly. "I just hope my loving her doesn't kill her." Another comment from the phone.

"Well, we'll never know now if you _would _have killed me, after all, right? At least you didn't love me. So—well--I just wanted your advice, and to ask you to keep him away for a while, all right? You know how to handle him best. Right. Thanks, Belladonna. Yes, I'll be careful. I'll talk to you soon." He sighed once more as he hung up the phone and threw himself across his bed, his thoughts on a slight form, dark eyes, and a temptingly pale skin…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rogue walked into school, passing happy couples in her haste to arrive. She blew past Jess and Jeremy, hardly noticing that they now shyly held hands.

She was unable to find any resentment of their happiness as she scanned the crowded halls frantically. This was where everyone hung out before classes started—so _where was he?_

For a brief moment, she wondered if the stress had finally gotten to her—if she'd imagined the whole thing. If that were the case, who knew her imagination could cause tingles to race across her skin, could cause her breath to come short, could make her body crave a touch, ache in an unfamiliar yearning?

Maybe he couldn't recognize her, with her Goth makeup on—though she'd toned it down quite a bit this morning, for just that reason. Maybe he wasn't going to Bayville after all, or he was being kept at the office getting his schedule and locker assignment. Maybe he wasn't--

"Hello, _cherie_," The voice resonated through her, and she spun. Remy LeBeau leaned casually against the wall behind her, apparently oblivious to the interested glances of all the girls, and ignoring the incredulous looks Rogue was receiving by talking to him.

"Uhm—" She flushed, and paled, and took a step closer to him, to give the other girls less opportunity to walk between them (and accidentally brush their "assets" against Remy in the process). "Hi." _How stupid is that? You've done nothing but think about the guy all weekend, and all you come up with is 'hi'? _"So… how've you been?" _Augh. That's so banal. _

"I—" he stopped himself from just saying what he was thinking. _She'll run if you blurt out, I've been missing you. She'll think you're a pervert, or a stalker or something! _"I've been… good. Settlin' in, dat sort o' t'ing." _Ugh. How inane. I'm a supernatural being, inherently alluring, I've lived for over a century; surely I can find something better to keep her talking, keep her interest. Think, Remy. Aha! _"Hey! Here's my schedule; let me know whose classes I can sleep t'rough."

She took the creased paper from his hand and examined it a moment, then gave him a startled look. "You're in half of my classes…." She said, not quite a question.

He half-smiled as he remembered his interesting conversation earlier with the woman who did the scheduling for new students.

The grandmotherly-looking woman asked him if he had met anyone at Bayview yet, and would he like to have classes scheduled with someone he knew? "Yes," he replied. "A _belle femme _called Rogue—sorry, I don't know her last name." She cut him off curtly, the welcoming expression falling somewhat; suddenly she more closely resembled a 'wicked stepmother' from a fairy tale than a cookie-baking grandmother. "I know who _she _is. She—and most of those other Xavier kids—have reputations for being troublemakers. You may wish to reconsider—well. Least said on them, the better." She sniped.

"So, her last name is Xavier?" He asked, puzzled. _Why wouldn't she just have said that was her last name?_

She gave him a look that said he had a lot to learn about Bayville. "No. She's just one of those—aberrances—who that generous man, Charles Xavier, God only knows why, has living at his mansion."

He raised an eyebrow at her sudden vehemence, realizing that there obviously _was_ a lot he'd have to learn about this deceptively small town. "Ah. Well, given dat she was de only person in a crowded club to speak to me, welcome me, an' try to make me feel at home, I t'ink I'll take my chances hanging around her. _I_ like her. So. May I have my schedule?" Reluctantly she'd printed it out and handed it over, and he went in search of Rogue, who became more intriguing the more he learned about her.

Rogue's voice interrupted his thoughts; she was looking at his schedule again. "You have chemistry, computer and technology, American history, _and _AP English with me? How did that happen?"

"Well, at de office dis morning, they asked me if I knew anyone here, an' I gave 'em your name. Told 'em how welcome and at home you made me feel…" he gave her a sly grin. "And you were _very _welcoming, and made me feel _very _at home when you were wit' me on de dance floor."

Her eyebrows rose and before she could think better of it, drawled, "So, you usually freak-dance all over strange girls when you're at home?" The words had a bite she didn't intend them to have. Inwardly, she winced, waiting for the brush-off that was sure to come.

Well, perhaps her unique brand of sarcasm would finally come in handy—cause him to leave, and end her romantic hopes quickly, instead of an agonizing, slow crushing of her wishes, as had happened with Jeremy. To her astonishment, instead of taking offence at her words—after all, she'd practically called him a womanizer—he laughed.

And for a moment, in that laugh, everything seemed to become still.

No—Rogue snuck a look around—everyone _was _still, staring at the newcomer who seemed to be—enjoying time with Rogue?

_Well, _Rogue sighed, _anyone who hadn't got a look at him earlier sure has now… oh well. The fantasy was nice while it lasted. Any minute now, one of the "it" girls will come up and—_

"Um. Hi?" A familiar, perky-breasted blonde was suddenly beside Remy, her bosom tipped at just the right angle that he could get a look down her ample cleavage, if he wanted. And _every _guy wanted a look at Taryn, Scott's sometime girlfriend. Her extremely low-cut shirt was paired with a Wonderbra that pushed up her bosom like a sacrificial offering to a pagan sex god--at least, Rogue _hoped_ it was a Wonderbra; _no one_ should be that perfect-looking naturally.

Remy actually had to force his head to turn, to look away from where he'd been—all right, admit it; he'd been staring, fixated, at Rogue. He wondered at her classmates' indifferent—or, in some of the girls' cases, sneering treatment of her: how could they _not _be as intoxicated by her mere presence, as he was?

Oh, right. _They _weren't vampires, and weren't choosing their next victims. Perhaps his _final _victim, if his unprecedented, strong reaction to her was reciprocated.

"Uhm."

Oh, right—that other girl.

He looked down at her—he was quite tall—and immediately snapped his gaze to about three inches above her head. Inwardly, he shook his head. He'd lived through the Seventies; how did any fashion statement shock him anymore? Must be his upbringing.

Not that he didn't appreciate the female form, far from it, but he liked the choosing of how much he saw, and of whom.

"I'm Taryn," the blonde flashed a blindingly bleached smile at him; it contrasted nicely with her tanning-bed-supplied skin tone.

"Remy LeBeau," he nodded at her, wishing she'd leave him to his enchanting Rogue, whose body language, he noticed, was signaling—resignation? But why?

"So, like, I noticed you were new. Want someone to show you around? I can help you study if you need to catch up on anything…" She smiled again, and blinked wide blue eyes at him.

Help him study? He'd be astonished if she had two brain cells to rub together—oh. Her posture, and Rogue's, clued him in to what she was, in fact, offering him.

Well—"T'anks, Taryn, but Rogue has already offered. I'm sure she'll be _wonderful_." There. Let her take that how she would. Taryn's jaw dropped a little, and her suddenly calculating eyes flicked between the pair. Remy subtly shifted 'til he was more clearly indicating his preference for Rogue, whose expression was about as surprised as Taryn's. He bent down to her, smoothly removed her books from her arms, and said, "_Chere? _Shall we?" and put her arm through his.

Dazed, Rogue let him take her arm before she was really certain of what was going on.

_Did he just choose me over Taryn? There was no mistaking what she was offering—after all, she's offered it to practically every guy in school already._

"So," Remy commented, when they'd put some space between themselves and the gawkers (who'd casually gathered around to see how quickly the hot new guy hooked up with the hottest girl). "To answer your earlier question."

"What question?" she asked, distracted by his arm on hers—and his scent—and his nearness—

"Whether I'm a, what do they say? A 'man-whore' when I'm at home."

She blushed. He _was _annoyed. "Oh." She peeked up at him. "You seemed to think it was funny."

"It was," he assured her, an easy smile on his face. "Most aren't bold enough to say what dey're really thinking. But no, I'm not a man-whore. Just around women I'm really, insanely, terribly attracted to."

"An' how often is that? Every week?" _Well, if he likes me saying what I'm really thinking, he'd better get used to it._

He considered. "Including you? Hmm… Once."

"Like I'm going to believe that." She scoffed. "As gorgeous as you are—and you have to know it—you've got to have girls throwing themselves at your feet." _There is no way he can be serious about liking me. He just met me! What's really going on here?_

"And I do, but you asked if I behaved as I did on Friday very often. I have only behaved that way—danced that way—once. With you." He realized he'd made a mistake as anger crossed her face and she jerked her arm away from his.

"So, what, I bring out your inner lech, or something? Gee, thanks, just what every girl wants to hear."  
"No, it isn't that at all--I mean, I _do_ want you--but I _don't _think of you like--"

She cut him off angrily. _Oh. I get it now. _"Okay, just tell me already: who put you up to this? Was there somebody from Bayville High at the club who told you to see how fast you could mess with the Goth freak? Or make fun of the mutant? Like a rite of passage into the school, or something? Do they all think I'm so desperate I'll just fall for the first guy who smiles at me? Huh? What?"

"No, no!" He protested, his expression too shocked to be feigned. Rogue paused mid-rant, eyeing his face suspiciously. _Is it possible he's really telling the truth? That he's seriously attracted to me?_

"No, Rogue," he said more softly. "I really _am_ attracted to you, and it seems impossible to me that apparently nobody else in this school has noticed it yet--which is my good fortune." At her perplexed look, he explained, "I don't have to steal you from a boyfriend. And, I know, I _know_ it sounds fake and ridiculous, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since Friday night at the club, not for a moment. I hate to use the word 'obsessed,' because it makes me seem like a stalker, but that's the closest word I have to describe my level of interest in you."

"Than why did you leave so suddenly on Friday? It wasn't to let someone know you'd, I don't know, 'made contact,' or something?"

"Not at all." He swallowed, remembering how the bloodlust had intensified so suddenly on the dance floor. How thankful he'd been that her friend had come looking for her then and distracted him, because otherwise she might not have made it out of the club intact. "I had to leave for _your_ sake, and I'll request that you _not _ask me to explain that just yet... I will explain it, I _know _it sounds cryptic, but I want you to know me better, when I do explain, so that I don't frighten you off. And I really, really don't want to frighten you off." His fiery gaze met her own. "Please? Get to know me better?"  
_And I thought _I_ was going to have to beg _him_ to let me stick around,_ Rogue thought wryly. "Well. If I can get the same promise from you. You're not the only one with frightening secrets." _We'll see how 'obsessed' he is when he learns about my mutation. But... I think I'm willing to give him a chance. He seems to be telling the truth, anyway. And he's soooo hot... _

To her relief, her sally was met with a wide smile. "Sounds like a deal,_ chere_. Shall we go to class?"  
Her grin was equally as wide, unexpected giddiness rising within her. _I think he might really like me!_ "Sure, Cajun. Let's go."

"_Cajun?" How'd she know?_

Her face registered surprise, as though he'd asked an obvious question. "Yeah. Isn't your accent from N'Orleans? I'm from Mississippi, myself, and I thought I still had a good handle on the Southern accents."

"No, you're correct... just not a whole lot of people get dat one right." He said weakly, and breathed a thanks that New Orleans' speech patterns hadn't changed overmuch in the past fifty years, which was the last time he'd lived in the city of his birth. He'd made an effort to keep his vocabulary up to date, but accents were more difficult to retrain. Especially when life got so long that decades started to feel like single years... Hopefully he'd dodged that bullet, though; it wouldn't do to have his Civil War era origins exposed before he could decide how to tell her his history. _And I will have to tell her, _he realized._ I grow more entranced by her every moment... When I'm sure she feels the same, I'll tell her, _he decided. _But not before then._

_But I hope it doesn't take long. I don't know how long I can last like this... I want her so much. I just... thirst. _

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

So, there's chapter 3. Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms? I'd love to hear them. Alara UNDERSCORE Celt AT hotmail DOT com. Sla'n!


End file.
